Lord Harry's Folly by Catherine Coulter (read this if .txt) 📕

in the schoolroom, say fourteen or fifteen years old, instead of a marriageable age, ripe to be plucked from the marriage mart. Even his very self-assured brother-in-law, the Earl of March, had not met and married Harry’s sister, Kate, until he was twenty-eight, and Kate, very rightly, was but eighteen. That was the right way of it. Curse Isabella for being born too early. It wasn’t fair. What was he, too young a man, to do about it? He said, “Listen to me, both of you. You’ve got to keep quiet about it. You know word like that gets around and before you know it, a fellow is the butt of wagers at all the clubs. The next step is an announcement in the Gazette.”

Mr. Scuddimore said, “Same thing happened some time back, I remember. There were several gentlemen in the running. Lord Oberlon, you know, the Marquess of Oberlon,” he added at the sudden peculiar look in Lord Harry’s eyes, “won a vast sum from Sir William Filey. A vast sum. I remember he ended up marrying the lady.”

Lord Harry sat suddenly forward in the carriage. “Were there other gentlemen involved in the wager, Scuddy?”

Mr. Scuddimore narrowed his eyes, a sign of profound concentration. “Yes, I think so. There was another gentleman. A military man as I recall. Always in his damned uniform quite turned all the ladies’ heads, the bounder.”

“Do you remember his name, Scuddy?” Lord Harry asked.

Mr. Scuddimore cudgeled his brains, then suddenly brightened. “The fellow’s name was Rolland yes, that’s it Captain Damien Rolland. Lord Oberlon never collected the wager from him Rolland up and left England, later got himself killed at Waterloo, if I remember correctly. In fact, some wagging tongues put it about that Rolland sheared away, put himself out of the running before the lady made up her mind. One day he was pursuing her, then the next gone off without a word to anyone.”

Lord Harry went suddenly pale, but since the interior of the carriage was in dark shadows, Sir Harry and Mr. Scuddimore didn’t notice. Lord Harry asked in a voice of casual interest, “Do you recall the lady’s name, Scuddy?”

Mr. Scuddimore shook his head and shot a hopeful glance at Sir Harry.

Sir Harry shrugged. “Sorry, Scuddy, it was before my time. Remember I was over in Spain at the time.”

Lord Harry said quietly, “Did the lady’s name happen to be Springville?”

“Yes, that was it Springville. Elizabeth Springville. Lovely little filly she was. Dead now, really quite a pity. Life does sometimes serve up the most unexpected and revolting dishes.”

“Ho,” Sir Harry said. “We’re finally here.” He leaned his blond head out of the carriage window. “Damnable crush tonight, and being late doesn’t help.”

Lord Harry said nothing more. Since all of Mr. Scuddimore’s attention was focused upon extricating his ample body from the carriage, and Harry didn’t want to be bothered by ancient history, it would simply have to wait. It was enough for now that Lord Harry had discovered there had been a wager, and that Lord Oberlon and Damien had been a part of it.

As the three friends made their way into Drury Lane Theater, Lord Harry had but one goal, to find Jason Cavander, the Marquess of Oberlon.

Chapter Two

“You’re naughty, your grace,” she said in a voice so soft and tempting that it would make any man’s toes curl, even his grace’s. “You give me this lovely ruby necklace and then hold me prisoner. Would you not like someone other than yourself and my maid to see its beauty?”

Her eyes glittered at the thought of the many envious glances that would come her way. It would serve those twitty young misses and their prune-lipped hypocritical mamas right to see her, Melissande Challier, more richly jeweled than they. Let them put their noses in the air, let them thrust out their bosoms and sail past her, as if she were a bad smell to be ignored. Her escort would be one of the most eligible peers of the realm, and her gown and jewels unparalleled. It was a delicious thought.

Jason Cavander touched his fingers lightly to the ruby necklace, an expensive bauble he’d bought in Italy on a whim. Having no one else upon whom to bestow it, he’d willingly given it to Melissande. It was a welcoming present, he’d told her. Welcoming him home from Italy and welcoming her to his protection. Since the exquisite necklace was the only item of apparel she was wearing, his fingers soon strayed to her soft shoulders and white breasts. Actually, he admitted to himself, he was quite sated, Melissande having most superbly seen to his pleasure. But he was tired, tired of the seemingly endless stream of agents, advocates, solicitors, and tenants who had occupied his waking hours since his return from abroad. He would have preferred to spend the evening quietly with Melissande, perhaps allowing himself to emerge from her charmingly furnished apartment on the morrow, not a tired, but an exhausted man. But he saw the gleam of excitement in her eyes, really quite a dazzling sight, and knew without her telling him that she wished above things to tempt and bewitch the gentlemen and ladies at Vauxhall Gardens this evening.

He lazily propped himself up on one elbow, gazed appreciatively once more at her very nicely arranged body, then smiled. She was exquisitely beautiful and she didn’t yet bore him. He didn’t mind in the least giving her what she wished. He wondered though, in the dark hours of the morning when sleep didn’t come easily, what it was that he wished. And, he’d wondered, even if he ever did figure out what he wanted, who would be there to give it to him? He had no one, not a blessed soul. He’d been home from Italy for only a short time, a trip he’d not wanted to take, not really, but he’d had to leave England because of the speculation, the interminable sympathy shoveled at him by